The penultimate post

Dear all,

I apologize for not keeping to my promise. I haven’t been updating. This is in part because I’m lazy, in part because I think P is reading this blog, which makes me very uncomfortable indeed, and also in part because I’ve been taking this blog for granted.

I started this blog because writing at the previous one felt horribly oppressive after some time. It was fine for the first few years when I was a dumb teenager (and in many ways I still am, although I’m allowed to rely on that excuse a lot less now) and basically only had crap to spout. But I got older and I was doing different things – fucking up, fucking around, caring less about rules and being P.C and watching my language and worrying about offending people with my views. Essentially I wanted to run away and write whatever I wanted to without fear of a negative backlash.

What I didn’t realize at the time was just how important public criticism is to my writing. Knowing that I have to be careful with my words forces me to put thought into them lest they be misconstrued.  Having this blog allows me to write unchecked. The result of any unfettered genius that might conceivably dwell in my writing is entry after painful entry of impulsive ranting, incoherent gleeful squealing, and all the other annoying qualities of a blog written by someone merely spewing out the garbled thoughts in her head.

So. In a few days I’ll be going public again. I haven’t decided on the URL yet, but I’ve already made a whole list of things I’ve been meaning to write about.

In the meantime I’ll keep this blog open to satisfy any urges to rant about something potentially offensive, scandalous, or threatening to my personal welfare. I realize that you can never truly keep anything a secret on the Internet, especially since most of you reading this are strangers to me, but all efforts will remain to keep this blog as anonymous as before, and I would appreciate it if you continue to *not* give anyone the URL.

If you have twitter, you can follow me (@l e r a i n e), or you can come back here in a few days when I’ve posted the new URL.

Fangirlism

Diary entry, 02/10/2009, hastily scribbled and then bordered with little flowers:

“Today I dreamt that I was a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist with the Washington Post and Obama came up to me and shook my hand. And he told me I was a great writer, doing a great job and that he looks forward to reading my articles.”

:) Such happy dreams.

2010 Resolution

Men fucking piss me off these days. They’re always such great company until it sinks in that I’m not going to fuck them – then all of a sudden it’s okay to be obnoxious and rude, or snarling accusations at me for being a tease, or worst of all, trying to emotionally manipulate me.

“You mean you’re not going to fuck me? Really? Really? Why not?! Really? Why won’t you? Really? You’re really not going to? Well, you’re a bitch anyway. I can’t believe how you can just do this to me, just trample all over my delicate feelings for you. I really thought we could have made things work, you know, you’re really special to me. Well, you *were* really special to me. Now I know you’ve just been using me.”

Fuck off. Seriously. Fuck right off. I’d rather shit a knife than fuck any one of the blithering morons who claim to be “interested” in me.

True story: one particularly raving moron said pretty much all of the above (in the mock monologue) and ended his ranting like this:

“Well, what do you have to say? Huh? Prove me wrong, why don’t you? Just tell me why you had to be so cruel. Just tell me why.”

And after I spent an hour explaining why I wouldn’t fuck him and why he had clearly misunderstood me:

“Okay, enough talking. I’ll forgive you if you come over in that gorgeous satiny dress of yours. We can forget this whole thing ever happened and make it work between us. What? So you still won’t fuck me? Really?! Why?! Please just come over, everything will be okay once you do. Just come over.”

And after half an hour of adamantly refusing to fuck him, yes, really, really not going to fuck him, NOT EVER:

“Well, I thought you’d proven me wrong but I guess I was right all along. You are a bitch.”

My resolution this year is to be more assertive, even though I know it will be painful. Last year there were a few points at which I was in the company of someone who was saying or doing something that I found extremely offensive, and I was close to tears in silent anger because I refused to lose my cool. It was appalling to realize just how distressed I was, yet acknowledge that I just couldn’t speak up. It was humiliating and pathetic.

This year I will lose my cool. If someone is annoying me I will tell him, and if he continues I’ll leave. I will try not to feel guilty, and I will give myself a small reward each time I stand up to someone who thinks it’s his right to impose his whims upon me, or that his time is more important than mine, or that if he tries hard enough, I’ll give in to whatever he wants.

Happy new year, all. Thanks for continuing to read this blog. I’ll update more often, I promise.

Chasing tail

On my way to Stereolounge for a party with hot lesbians and free flow of alcohol. Tonight I want to meet someone gorgeous and wild, who will make me catch my breath, and take me home with her. But who am I kidding?

An Office Affair: II

(Cont’d)

I smoothed my skirt and steeled myself. I’d taken a couple of steps towards his cubicle. Progress was good. I’d make it there. I’d sit on the edge of his desk with my skirt riding up my thighs, long wavy hair cascading down my shoulder in an intimate curtain… and smile. Nicely. Don’t grin like a fuckwit, I told myself. The plan was to look effortlessly sexy.

“Hey,” I’d say casually. Hey, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner — I make a very good dessert. “Wanna get a drink after work?” I’d keep my tone neutral, almost bored.

He stood up. I lost it. I stopped in my tracks immediately. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I turned around and retreated hastily.

Loser, I taunted myself. You can’t do this. You’re a humongous… Useless Thing. Imbecile, I corrected myself. Dolt. I picked up my bag and sighed in self-defeat.

I walked out to the lift lobby. Christiaan was there as well! I visualized a miniature version of myself doing smug somersaults and singing inane rhymes like an Oompa-Loompa. The planets were aligned. It was my moment. Take that, Detractor-Dulcinia. I smirked at myself.

We got into the lift with several other people. I smiled warmly at him and he smiled back. Play it cool. Don’t slouch. Check your watch – makes you look busy and not overeager. Don’t. Look. At. His. Crotch. And get caught doing so.

I looked at his crotch anyway.

The lift dinged. Everyone filed out. He turned to me right away and smiled.

“Are you heading to the MRT?”

“Yep. Are you…?”

“Yeah!” We walked in silence for a while; myself a couple of steps behind so I could check him out. Crisp white shirt with nice, sharp lines; jeans that fit perfectly; brown suede Oxfords – no wing-tips, thankfully; black leather messenger bag. Very sleek.

“Thank God it’s Friday.” I grinned at him.

“Yeah! I know… so glad to be out of there.” His smile was disarming. “You going out?”

“Yeah, maybe tonight. I’m going home to chill out first though. You? Weekend plans?”

“Yeah, I think so… maybe tomorrow.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“Usually my friends like to go to Butter… or Zouk. What about you?”

I shrugged. “Zouk. Attica sometimes, Butter… rarely. Chijmes, Helipad…” I trailed off with another shrug. We get on the train.

“Oh, I’ve not been to Chijmes yet. I’ve walked past it a few times though.”

“Well, I might be going there this weekend. You should give me a ring if you want to drop by.” Another shrug. I smiled up at him. I love men who tower over me.

“Yeah, sure! Um…” We reached for our phones at the same time.

“Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text you so you have mine,” I offered. This, IMO, is the best way to get in contact with someone, especially if he/she can’t possibly avoid you in the near future. Take his/her number and withhold yours. Whoever has the most information has the most power.

“Okay.” He gave me his number. “You’re getting off at this stop?”

“Yup.” I put my phone away – without texting him. “Have a good weekend!” The doors opened.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Maybe.” I stepped off and smiled over my shoulder. He waved. I smiled back and walked away – working the walk, as my friend advised.

Intelligence Squared Debate – Is the Catholic church a force for good?

I watched this Intelligence Squared Debate a few nights ago with P (we are still good friends, and I particularly enjoy our intellectual compatibility). If you haven’t seen it, it’s a brief debate with the motion: “Is the Catholic church a force for good in this world?”

In favour of the motion are Archbishop John Onaiyekan and Ann Widdecombe; against the motion, Stephen Fry and Christopher Hitchens. Heavyweights indeed. It wasn’t particularly insightful for me, but I was quite interested in seeing how the hardcore Catholics would respond to the charges of anti-Semitism, child rape, advocation against use of condoms etc.

It’s rather predictable (pitting a bad orator and a shrill middle-aged MP against two bestselling, award-winning writers/journalists with excellent research to substantiate their claims and the floor is full of intellectuals? Gee, can’t tell how they’d be swayed), but enjoyable. I still think the Church is full of shit, but that’s probably because I wasn’t born a woman in Kenya with a body wracked with AIDS and a hut in a village where the menfolk would likely rape me quite gleefully. It’s a good reminder to keep things in perspective.

 

 

An Office Affair: I

One day he never existed, the next he was a couple of cubicles away. 6 feet tall, brown/brown, quiet, obviously attractive (in the way that would make girls’ heads turn and cause them to giggle and stare at this good-looking angmoh creature) — and we largely ignored each other. I was feeling too jaded and unhappy about my recent luck with romance (as with P, the ex, and the Shahrukh-Khan lookalike, who turned out to be a royal arsehole, by the way) to even look at him.

But then my only friend in the office quit, and there were no more distractions from work, and he was the only other person my age. My self-esteem was having better days as well. So when we met in the pantry one morning, I smiled and said hi. And he said hi back, and then we were chatting easily. I started realizing he was pretty cute when he lingered awkwardly and I had to tell him to go back to his desk.

So that’s background for you. I had the following text exchange with a girlfriend a couple of weeks later:

“How have you been, Dulcinia? Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks”

“I’m good, work is good, there’s a cute Dutch intern here.. I need to get into his pants”

“Haha Dutch intern? How old is he? Details!”

“I don’t know. I don’t have details. His name is Christiaan. And he dresses like a GQ model.”

This is not entirely true, of course. He dresses exceptionally well, but not exactly GQ-worthy most days. However, he does have excellent posture – a quality possessed by shockingly few men in Singapore.

“Lol yes. Ask him out!”

“I don’t know. I don’t think we have much to talk about. I just want to do him before he leaves in Dec.”

Yes, I assume (usually correctly) – though happy to be proven wrong – that good-looking guys are largely himbos, or at least uninterested in the nerdy little things that make me feel warm and fuzzy.

“Haha okay, ask him out to sleep with him. Do you guys talk?”

“We bump into each other a lot (only sometimes deliberately on my part) but it’s so hard to talk when everyone else is around :-(“

“Do you at least have his number?”

“No lah damn fail right. I gotta tap that ass before it goes back to Holland!”

“Yes please do, and in the process find out if he has other fine friends ;)”

“Okay. Here’s the plan. 1) Walk past his cubicle casually and inquire about weekend plans, 2) Say we should hang out and get his ph no, 3) If faced with rejection, cheerfully walk away. OMGggg”

More background: I have never made the first move towards or dated head-turningly good-looking people. I’ve never made the first move on anyone, in fact – I am an amazingly dorky chickenshit when it comes to approaching people I actually like.

“Yup. Are you in nice heels today? Okay, I’m sure you are. GO FORTH AND BE BRAVE! And in the unlikely event that he says no – work the walk back okay!”

I did a quick check. Hair carefully arranged to”naturally”  tumble over my shoulder just so; fresh slick of lip gloss, no treacherous food stuck in teeth or anything gross. Everything had to look unintentionally good. I was satisfied. This was about as hot as I was going to look without immediate access to my hairstylist.

I inhaled deeply and walked.

Hooking up Akon-style

 

Me: So…when can I tap that?

Her: Anytime baby, it’ll cost you though.

Me: Cost me? Well how much to dress you in a sailor suit and cover you in peptobismol while i tap that?

Her: There is a high price on good quality my friend. Could cost ya a trip to the bank. Although that is a very simple request

Me: Money ain’t a problem baby. Besides, I’m so good you’ll be throwin money at me. I can get freakier too. You want it in the kitchen or on the street?

Her: Damn, sounds kiny. I’m turned on already. I’m good in both public and private. Which wold you prefer?

Me: Yeah girl. Get you freak on. You know, I got a hot-tub. Like Biggie said, “we can smoke a joint in the
jacuzzi, get high while ya do me”. Get wet.

Her: Your wild.

Me: And in your driveway.

Her: I’ll be out in a minute. Anything you think I’ll need?

Me: Well a firefighter is normally recomended for a hose this big.

Her: It’s okay. I just watched Crocodile Dundee. I should be able to choke that anaconda.

 

From Can I Tap That?.

QOTD: Have you ever been in love

I was going to write today. I was. I’ve been telling myself since I woke up – “Today I will write in my blog, and it will not be trash” – so obviously I didn’t get around to doing it at all until now, when I’m ready for bed.

I’ve been going through my email archives and rediscovering many gems. I don’t have many friends, but happily most of them are intellectually inclined, insatiably curious, or full of delightful quirks and interesting/bizarre ideas, and many emails we exchange contain wonderful things: a link to an interesting article, an amusing video, a poem, cute pictures.

Here’s a passage from the Sandman series that my good friend, Siew, sent me a few months ago.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.”

Dry-cleaning in Singapore sucks

Why the fuck do dry cleaners in Singapore take so long to do their job? Every dry cleaner I go to – regardless of whether their company boasts a name like “Super Instant Xpress Dry Clean” – tell me flatly that the fastest they can dry-clean anything at all is three days.

Three. Days. I am assured by my more widely-travelled friends that in all other major cities, dry cleaning takes less than a day. You drop your shit off in the morning, you come back at noon or in the evening and it’s done and you pay the dude. Here, it’s just not possible to do anything, anywhere, in under three days.

So today I got my colleague to send my jacket to the dry cleaner’s for me. He came back with the receipt, and I opened it, expecting the usual three days. But no – Laundry Club takes SEVEN fuckin’ work days to dry-clean one ladies’ jacket. Seven days. Seven days. Where the fuck do they clean the clothes, Indonesia? Because I could take a ferry to Indonesia and get it cleaned, and take a ferry back in less than a day.

Someone ought to set up a genuine express dry-cleaning store here. There’d be a tremendous market for it.